


God with us

by skeletonwaltz



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Austria (mentioned), Franco-Prussian War, Germany is Holy Roman Empire, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Other, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonwaltz/pseuds/skeletonwaltz
Summary: Lead by the Iron Chancellor, Prussia is on his way to reach his ultimate goal: to put an end to the German Question and unite every German nation under one mighty empire. And in order to fulfill such a quest, he'll stop at nothing.Maybe then, a little boy withering away in bed could be saved...





	1. Chapter 1

Prussia wasn’t one for fancy parties full of diplomats and foreign aristocracy, and he was never more sure of it than when he was made to attend one. Idle chatter bore him.

Walking with his back and shoulders straight and posing as some sort of undaunted monument was even worse. Prussia liked to take swigs of beer from a jar in old pubs where he simply would go by Gilbert and smile to his compatriots without any formalities, he liked playing beautiful tunes on his flute with his eyes closed when no one could watch, and most of all, he liked going to war. He was born a warrior and grew up strong by fighting for every inch of his land with all his might. There was no feeling like charging into battle and rallying his thoroughly trained troops into glory, no triumph such as marching over his defeated foes with the black eagle banner waving behind him.

But wars gave way to peace, and although frail and more apparent than honest, this meant having to sit down and actually savour his reaping every now and then. So he sighed and tried to keep himself away from the gathered noblemen and politicians, remaining in a corner of the luxuriously decorated room and waiting for everything to be over soon. Sure, he’d have to smile and bow to some ladies, but that wasn’t too much trouble, was it? Ah, if only Spain was there, like back in the good old days. France was out of the question, of course; the XIXth century, as promising as it had started out for him, had proved to be tougher than he’d hoped. “Verdammt”, he mumbled to himself after saluting a group of Russian army officers passing him by. “I’d really love to be anywhere else right now”. 

From the corner of his crimson eyes he saw someone approaching. It was a fairly short man with long dark sideburns and a badly hidden frown of concern wrinkling his forehead. Prussia had gotten to see him several times and was well aware of his identity, but he’d never talked to him and the French ambassador had never made the move either.  
“Monsieur Benedetti”, Prussia greeted as formally as he could. The Frenchman shook the hand Prussian offered to him and licked his upper lip, trying to find the proper words to address him.

“Herr Prussia”, he said finally. It was always interesting to see how humans reacted to his presence, even though this man must have had contact with Francis at least. But well, Francis was no Gilbert, was he? Benedetti’s eyes seemed to linger on his prussian blue dress uniform, adorned with golden epaulettes and a golden and white sash going over his shoulder and across his chest, and then a bit more on the iron cross neatly placed on his neck. Prussia took advantage of it and made a witty remark, to loosen the tension in the atmosphere.

“Herr Bismarck always tells me to wear Pour le mérite*, but this one is my favorite”, he proudly pointed to the cross. It reminded him of his origins, after all. “Strange for him to favor such a foreign-sounding insignia, but you know how he is.” Benedetti curved his lips briefly. Dealing with the hot headed Chancellor of the North German Confederation was indeed exhausting, but none of them could say it openly. Even the very embodiment of his nation wasn’t able to change his mind sometimes.  
“I suppose you’re not too fond of these social gatherings”, the ambassador said with a thick accent. A waiter carrying a silver tray offered the two men a drink, which they accepted.

“If they will grant me another glorious battle where I’ll be able to kick someone’s ass, just like I did Austria’s in Sadowa, I’ll be more than glad to endure some boring receptions here and there!”, he said nonchalantly as he took a sip of his glass of champagne. The thin man in front of him swallowed nervously and Prussia realized he probably shouldn’t have said that. After all, if there was a war cloud in the near horizon, it was likely to downpour on his western neighbour. And avoiding the storm was the one mission Benedetti had been trusted with.

“Surely an armed conflict between our countries won’t be necessary”, the French said trying to sound confident. “France is willing to re-negotiate the borders established in 1814. And we intend to reach an agreement regarding Luxembourg…”

Prussia snorted and quickly recomposed himself, trying not to make Benedetti feel disrespected, which wasn’t his intention at all.

“Pardon me, monsieur ambassador, but even though I am no politician…” he stopped to measure his words, “… Luxembourg should be the least of your worries. Elsass-Lothringen? That’s another thing entirely.”

Benedetti swallowed ostensibly. He then proceeded to elaborate the many reasons why such a dispute could be “easily solved with patience and in a gentlemanly manner”. “The poor thing still thinks he can beat the iron chancellor with his shallow diplomatic approach”, Prussia sighed. The French must have known his situation was desperate too; the fact that he had approached no other than Prussia hoping to earn himself a supporter amongst the new, relentless German ruling elite was proof enough that his darkest premonitions were becoming a reality.

“It is not for me to decide, my good sir”, Prussia tried to explain. “It may sound funny, but I’m a mere puppet hanging from the strings of the events. An avatar of whatever is in store for my land and my people, with little say in the affairs that actually change them.” There was a note of bitterness in his otherwise boastful voice. Besides, would it really be that bad if he went to war against France? It was bound to be a short war, certainly. Prussia had never had such a powerful military engine at hand, had never commanded such a ruthless force. The increasing number of conscripts underwent a strict training and his officers had mastered new doctrines of offensive. It had become obvious to the rest of the world after he brought Austria to his knees back in 1866. How on Earth did Benedetti think they could resist, if it came down to a new war? Prussia chose not to tell him most of those things, but he did warn him to be careful for his own good. “You must understand you’re in no position to make any demands.”

“Mais…”, the ambassador hesitated for a moment. “Monsieur Bismarck can’t be such an unreasonable man”, he almost spat. All those years of diplomatic tension and the proximity of failure were taking a toll on his nerves.

“Unreasonable isn’t the word I’d use”, Prussia bit his lower lip and gulped down the rest of his champagne, “; perhaps obstinate. Firm. Unyielding.” The chancellor had a bright mind and he was also bent on bringing a Prussian-led unified Germany to glory. He was already moving his pawns across the game board in order to achieve it. Prussia had the feeling that Bismarck’s plans were already past the point where they could be foiled. He wasn’t wrong. And it wasn’t only him —Roon, Moltke, the whole nation had been set ablaze by the nationalistic sentiment and was eager to reclaim what once was theirs. Gilbert himself felt it burning in his heart, an unquenchable thirst.

Benedetti’s expression turned grim as he realized he would find no ally in the silver-haired man standing stiffly in front of him with an unfathomable look in his fierce red eyes. He bowed solemnly, and turned his back on Prussia. He found a hand on his shoulder, retaining him.

“If I were you, I would tell Louis and Francis to try and not make things too difficult. If they keep making a fuss, things will get ugly”, Prussia whispered to his ear. As soon as his gloved hand released Benedetti, he saw him walk quickly towards a small group of diplomats. He hadn’t meant it as a threat; rather, as good-willed advice.  
Had he?

 

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*Pour le mérite: the highest Prussian military award, issued from 1740 until 1918.


	2. Chapter 2

With a high pitched voice ill-fitted for his colossal figure, Otto von Bismarck welcomed Prussia inside the Chancellor’s office. He stood up behind a robust wooden desk littered with papers; even Gilbert felt belittled by such a man, always in uniform despite having seen combat for the first time only a few years ago.

“Herr Preussen.”

“Chancellor.”

“Moltke’s army is ready for the invasion. We will have retaken Metz before the summer ends.” He proceeded to explain the divisions’ movements on a map. It was clear the assault and highly detailed mobilization systems had been carefully planned out, something that couldn’t be done in a few weeks. Prussia smirked, pushing to the background the confirmation of the chancellor’s guile and focusing instead on the skirmishes that lay ahead of him. Bismarck dismissed his passionate statements regarding strategy and troop movement, as tactics were out of his field of expertise, suggesting that he discuss it with the generals instead. He always talked to him as if he were only a bit above the “leeching parasites” of the Parliament; no deference, only the well-measured amount of respect he showed everyone by default. It was a cold reminder of the nature of Prussia’s leader now: someone who’d achieved great deeds, and would certainly achieve much more, by the sheer force of his speeches and intrigues. Gilbert rose above the desk, discontent.

“It will be fairly easy. France’s forces cannot compete with our armies.”

Bismarck stared at him intensely below thick grey eyebrows that matched his moustache.

“It better be so.”

Then, the older-looking of the two men immersed in a mountain of documents and Prussia knew there was nothing else to say.

As he abandoned Bismarck’s quarters, some of the bureaucrats that crowded the Wilhelmstrasse turned their heads to look at him, if only for a moment. He wondered how many of them actually imagined who he was. Did it matter, anyway?

What was more concerning was the immediate future. War with France was a certainty now, a way of seeking compensation for the damage that was done almost seventy years ago. In fact, Prussia hoped that this new conflict would end up completely the opposite. Turning the tide would mean a re-emergence of the German might after decades of inside fights and overall chaos. And maybe, just maybe, that would imply…

 

As he travelled from battlefield to battlefield, his memory flashed through images of another time, when he and Fritz used to ride into the fight side by side. It wasn’t that he had not grown fond of his successors; he genuinely cared for the Hohenzollerns. He had liked Friederich Wilhelm IV and he liked this Wilhelm too, who was polite and soft-mannered. But in none of them had Prussia found the comfort and complicity he had in Fritz, who also held more honest ideals, a particular way of understanding his land and its values.   
Gilbert shook his head. “Fritz would have loved this”, he changed his mind while arriving at the appointed place of reunion, somewhere along the road from Donchéry to Sedan —where the victorious Prussian army had captured the French emperor and a large number of his troops after they ran up the white flag. Bismarck and a gaunt-looking Napoleon III entered a humble house with narrow, creaking stairs and barely a couple of wooden chairs and a pinewood table. The two heads of estate went upstairs; Prussia remained on the first floor, waiting to see an old friend.

France appeared when Prussia had already dozed off a couple of times. He was dressed in bright blue and red, his blonde hair tied into a low ponytail. His elegant stubble was overgrown, scruffy and in need of a shave, and his eyes were sunk into deep purple dark circles; overall, he looked tired, the very face of defeat. Gilbert showed him a wide smile, which wasn’t reciprocated, and offered him a seat.

“It’s been a long time. How have you been?” the silver-haired man asked cheerfully. Francis took his time to answer.

“You’re well aware of how I’ve been.”

Prussia clicked his tongue.

“Now that everything’s over, I thought that you and I could have a friendly chat, like we used to. Look, I’ve even ordered a fine wine to be brought.” If France recognized how much of a sacrifice the Prussian was doing by being willing to drink ‘red piss’ instead of his favoured golden nectar, he didn’t say anything about it. France looked him in the eye for the first time since he had entered the room and spoke in a cold manner.

“Over? Non, mon ami. Things are far from over.”

He traced the edge of the table with his index finger. There was dirt under his usually well-cared-for fingernails, a mixture of dried mud and blood.

“You might think France will bend her knee, but the fight will go on, even with the Emperor exiled.”

Prussia blinked, staggered.

“Oh, I believe that is your chancellor’s intention, oui? To end the Napoleon dynasty once and for all. But if that despicable casque à pointe* trusts my country to be tamed this easily, he will find out that he’s wrong.”

France’s frown darkened the look in his blue eyes. He tightened his lips after speaking. It was painfully obvious that he had no intention of being pleasant to Prussia, or accepting his cheery manners. Prussia was starting to get mad too.

“So this is how it’s going to be, huh? You acting all hurt and morally superior just because I took from you what you once took from me. Who are you, England?”

Before Francis had the chance to reply, Prussia stood up and smashed his hands on the table next to the Frenchman.

“Look, I know the big man’s politics are wild. That’s just how he is, and even if I disagreed with his methods, which I don’t, I’d have no means of objecting. So, there.” He brought his face close to France’s, their noses almost touching. “Now man up and dare to tell me this is worse than what you did in 1806.”

Francis’ eyes became two slender crevices, glinting with contempt.

“Nations live and die, Gilbert, whether you like it or not. If it hadn’t been by my hand, it would have been Spain’s, or anyone else, really.”

Prussia rose up abruptly and stared at him from above with scorn. “He was a child.” He finally dropped the friendly charade; now there was only anger, flowing out after being repressed for over six decades.

“He looked like one, but he was centuries old. A crumbling cluster of warring estates trying to not fall apart for so long, no wonder he never grew up.” France’s voice sounded cold and distant, so different from his usual passionate self it was scary. “Face it. Le Saint-Empire romain was a farce that had outlived its usefulness. It was weak and everyone accepted its demise…”

Prussia kicked the floor and let out a scornful snicker.

“Funny you would say that but now that it happens to you…”

France got up, the wooden floor creaking under his weight.

“I’m not proud of what I did. If you deflect my accusations by talking about being given orders, why can’t I?”

“It isn’t me playing the victim card, old friend.” The words tasted sour in Prussia’s tongue. “It was France who sent a declaration of war to the Prussian government, after all.”

“How dare you. France has done all that it could humanly and honorably do to prevent the war that your cunning Chancellory has set up so cleverly.”

Unable to deny it, Prussia changed topic again.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. You lost.” He remembered the image of a young blonde boy, prostrated in bed, withering for years, and his heart shrank. “He didn’t disappear, you know? He’s still there. And with the proclamation of the new Reich, I’m convinced he’ll thrive once more.”

Gilbert wasn’t looking at France anymore. His eyes were fixated in some point in the wall behind him, lost in some fantasy only he could see. He extended his arms in an overly dramatic gesture of grandeur. “We have cut the ties that chained us down to the Austrian sinking ship. We have claimed the territories that were rightfully ours with our overwhelming military might. The Black Eagle is soaring through the skies. Isn’t this what you wanted, Fritz? Isn’t this everything I have ever fought for? At last, the Germans are united and free. It couldn’t have been done without bloodshed; everything worth keeping has to be gained by iron and fire. I have earned my place as the dominant power in Europe.”

Francis shook his head softly.

“Your soul has been poisoned by your politicians’ misguided ideas of greatness. Is it truly magnificent to make enemies out of former allies? An empire built on nothing but warmongering can’t expect to live long.”

Prussia bit his cheek and the look on his face gave away that France had really hit a nerve. When the main architect of the resurgence of the German hegemony disappeared from the scene—and considering the human average lifespan, it was bound to happen sooner than later—, who would prevent his sandcastles from collapsing? Prussia was worried, but he couldn’t let it show.

“And you’re the one to talk. We’ll see about that, France. We’ll see.”

The blonde man crossed his arms over his buttoned up blue coat, adorned by a white belt that went down to his waist. “You were always a bit on the crazy side, Gilbert, but you were never this delusional.” Prussia sensed some sort of pity in his statement, and that, of all the things, he couldn’t stand.

“You wouldn’t understand”, he spat, angry at Francis, and angry at himself for not being able to speak his mind straightforwardly and for blurting out self-righteous half-truths instead. “You’ve already had your chance at glory. The next century belongs to me, I’ve earned it.”

He watched France sit down again, head hanging and shoulders low.

“Your empire will fall, like all great empires do. And when it does, nobody will be there to catch you”, he said ominously. Gilbert felt a shiver make its way up his spine and turned his back to him.

Prussia brushed his jaw with his hand and drifted around the room, restless. Of course he knew nothing lasted forever, he was not a child. Was it truly so wrong for him to want to savor his victories? He brushed it off quickly. France was blinded by his defeat and couldn’t see past the cloudy horizon. He had been successfully isolated by the Prussian chancellor’s schemes and the future looked grim for him. That was the kind of life nations had: brothers one day, bitter enemies the next.

Both men remained silent until their leaders came downstairs and saw each other off. The contrast was striking —one, tall as a tower, projecting his shadow all over the room; the other, subdued, shrinking under the weight of his downfall.

Gilbert bowed politely to France and Louis-Napoleon.

“We will see each other soon”, he smirked. 

“I expect no less.” France gave him a caustic last look and the two Frenchmen abandoned the building, effectively opening an unbridgeable abyss between the two countries, one that wouldn’t be overcome until many, many years and dreadful events passed.

“How did it go?” Once they were left alone, Prussia turned his head towards Bismarck, who sported a broad satisfied smile under his moustache. The giant man patted him on the back twice, threatening to make him lose balance, and chuckled through his teeth. 

“Our empire is dawning, Herr Preussen.”

Prussia would have liked a more explicit answer, but he’d never get a proper piece of what was on the chancellor’s mind. He didn’t like his tone either, a mixture of arrogance and condescension, but for once, he didn’t care: he had more important things to take care of.

 

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*Casque à pointe: derived from the French name for the traditional Prussian military helmets worn by German soldiers from the 1840s until World War I, the Pickelhaube.


	3. Chapter 3

Prussia urged his white steed with his spurs and dashed through the road. As soon as he got off the beast he ran frantically until he reached a certain building in Berlin, and even then he didn’t stop racing till he stormed into a big room, almost empty except for an immense baroque canopy bed, an equally old fashioned wardrobe and a few dusty wooden toys sitting in a corner. The surrounding darkness was abruptly interrupted by a radiating luminescence coming from the only window there was and Prussia took a moment to let his eyes adapt to the lighting. His gaze diverted automatically towards the bed, which he found shockingly empty. He blinked twice, hoping to find a small figure resting its head on the pillows, as always, but there was nothing there. Then his attention turned to the window.

There was a small silhouette in front of the glass, apparently staring at the busy street below. Prussia approached him carefully with his lips parted, not knowing well what to say. His footsteps alerted the boy, who turned his head and looked at him as he kept walking. When he was about three feet away from the child, close enough to actually see his round but stern eyes under blonde bangs, Gilbert fell to his knees.

The floating dust glowed golden around the child as he looked Gilbert in the eyes, icy blue irises pinned on crimson ones. He had a certain sleepy air to his expression, slightly disoriented, but as noble and mature as Prussia remembered so fondly.

“You woke up”, the albino finally managed to whisper.

The blonde child blinked hazily.

“How do you feel?”

Gilbert waited expectantly for an answer. When it arrived, he felt his fast-beating heart sink.

“… who are you?”

“Of course”, he mumbled to himself. He should have imagined the magnitude of the damage done after the empire’s official dissolution, but now that he was experiencing it first-hand, he felt he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. He sniffed loudly and wiped away a single tear before it even threatened to roll down his cheek. Courage, Gil. Don’t let this get to you. He needs you now, more than ever.

“You… really don’t remember anything? I’m your awesome big brother.”

“… bruder?”, the child tilted his head to a side.

Gulping down the tight lump that insisted on choking his throat, Prussia forced himself to grin widely.

“I’ve fought so hard for you to wake up, so I deserve at least a hug, don’t I?”

The seconds seemed to turn into months but in the end the boy’s cautious stare was replaced by something warmer, and he took a few steps ahead in order to meet Gilbert’s open arms.

“It will be alright, kiddo. I have so many things to teach you all over again”, he said while he embraced the child’s thin body and disheveled his hair with his hand. He had seen something stir up in the boy’s eyes when he had called him bruder. His memories might not be lost forever. Even if they were, he didn’t care; from now on, they would have time to create endless new ones.

“Would you like me to play a song on the flute for you, Germany?”

The kid rewarded him with a smile brighter than a thousand suns.


	4. Epilogue

Prussia had never been to Versailles before, and as much as he hated to admit it, the place was stunning. No expense had been spared: the Prussian delegation had been welcomed by immaculate gardens, fountains and statues and an even more impressive interior designwork and decoration, legendary in both range and quality. From the mirror-clad arches, the polychrome marbles, to the mural paintings, everything conveyed a sense of grandeur and magnificence unparalleled in Europe.

The richly decorated cornices and vaulted ceilings kept Gilbert marveled at such luxury. “Francis must be fuming, seeing my mighty soldiers marching through his majestic halls”, he thought, although not as cheerfully as he should have. Little Ludwig, who walked only a few steps behind him, seemed pretty impressed too, but he didn’t say a word.

The proclamation of the great Second Reich was, well, underwhelming. The pomp of the tapestries and golden statuettes fit nicely with the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen gathered around Wilhelm and his entourage, but the ceremony itself lacked emotion. Bismarck conveyed a speech in a dreary voice more suited for a prison sentence reading, not very different from the one he used routinely in the Parliament. Furthermore, Prussia knew —because Wilhelm himself had trusted him with his doubts in the matter— that the soon-to-be emperor of a unified Germany was less than convinced to be named so. He feared it would belittle his title of King of Prussia, which he held the dearest. This sentiment moved Gilbert deeply and he couldn’t help but encourage him to take the mantle and be the strong leader his nation needed him to be, now more than ever. Deep down, Prussia wanted Wilhelm to be strong because he was certain the empire couldn’t rest all its weight onto Bismarck’s shoulders alone, despite the old man’s efforts of making it so. He had made himself indispensable for the correct working of the estate machinery and everyone, including the very chancellor, now feared a future where Bismarck wasn’t in charge anymore.

So, the coronation was held with solemnity and some sort of tension buzzing in the air, making Gilbert uneasy. But the moment he looked into his little brother’s sky blue eyes, right after Wilhelm had became Wilhelm the First Deutscher Kaiser, and saw light where there had been a dull veil of grey, and a shadow of pink blushed the boy’s previously pale cheeks, he felt everything would be alright. It had to.

Germany had just been reborn from its still red-hot ashes. Its rebirth was marked by a dark prophecy of iron and blood, its foundations laid on tumbling rocks, its national identity based on opposing others rather than coming to terms with itself, but it was a reality. And Prussia would take it upon himself to mentor him through tempests and truces. He would tell him the history of its lands and people, he would tell him of Old Fritz and everything he achieved, he’d teach him how to play music and hold a rifle so he could fend for himself some day. The boy would have to be a fast learner if he wanted to survive amongst the wilderness that was Europe at the turn of the century and stand proudly among his neighbours, even above them. He had it in him; after all, the awesome heir to the great Teutonic Knights, the Black Eagle whose shadow covered the Old Continent as it flew over it, would be there to lift him up every time he fell.

And oh, he would fall. They had no way of foreseeing it but on that day in 1871 dark clouds started gathering on the horizon. Gilbert, blissfully ignorant and optimistic for what the future had in store for them, took his little brother on his arms as the light of Versailles shone on them. He was grateful for the miracle that had been bestowed on him and intended to make the most of it.

He was certain God was with them*.

 

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*Reference to the sentence 'Gott mitt uns', motto of the Kingdom of Prussia and later commonly used by the German military.


End file.
